The Guilty Parties
by Namaste
Summary: Post Words and Deeds. House wants answers to two mysteries: what is killing a bride, and why is Wilson acting so odd?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This was produced through an experiment from the LJ Community HouseficPens to try and create a fic through a collaborative workshop process, with input from topazeyes, npkedit (sherlock21B), jdaisy, uarazy2 (Roga), stephantom, and thinleysliced

------

"You haul sixteen ounces of strained peas out of a toddler's ear canal and what do you get?" House tossed a file onto the desk in front of Wilson.

"Another day older and closer to getting out of Cuddy's debt?" Wilson guessed.

"Impossible," House said. "I'll never be out of Cuddy's debt. She's got plans for my life until the day I die."

"She lied for you, you owe her," Wilson said. "A few extra clinic hours a week aren't going to kill you."

"Shhh." House cocked his head toward the security camera at the side of the room.

"The judge rescinded the subpoena," Wilson said. "They're not watching your every move any more."

"That's what they'd like you to think." House said.

Wilson sighed and leaned back in the chair. He watched as a woman stepped out of the room where House had just been. She carried a baby in one arm and held the hand of a blonde girl, who was maybe three years old. The girl waved at House, who ignored her.

"Wait a minute, sixteen ounces?" Wilson turned back to House.

"Sixteen ounces, six ounces, one ounce, half-an-ounce, whatever. It's a metaphor, work with it," House said. He looked up at the clock as the minute hand slipped past the top of the dial. "And, I'm now officially out of here. I have fulfilled the terms of my slave contract for another day. I have another twenty-two glorious hours free until Cuddy can suck the life out of me again."

House leaned against the counter. He tapped his cane against Wilson's leg. "Why are you here? You're not scheduled until Friday."

Wilson shrugged. "Charts," he said. "I thought I'd get them done while I have some free time."

"You don't believe in free time," House said. "You've got three new patients coming in this week."

"Two," Wilson corrected. "And do I want to know how you know this?"

"I know everything."

"I keep forgetting that you're omniscient, what with your forgetting to get your budget to Cuddy yesterday."

"I didn't forget," House corrected him. "I was ignoring it. Completely different situation."

"So you're what, ignoring your paperwork to make up for actually showing up in the clinic?" Wilson signed off on one of the three charts stacked on the desk in front of him.

"It's all about balance," House said. "Yin and yang, harmony, keeping an even keel. It's all the rage in rehab."

"You faked rehab."

"Shhh." House nodded toward Brenda this time and Wilson shook his head.

House tapped his leg again. "Seriously, why are you here?"

"Seriously, because I wanted to take care of my paperwork," Wilson said.

"You could have done that in your own office."

Wilson shrugged. "The charts were here. It's just as easy to take care of them here, rather than carrying them back and forth."

"Fine, don't tell me," House said. "I'll figure it out for myself, more entertaining that way."

"Why don't you entertain yourself by seeing patients?"

"There is nothing entertaining about patients, especially these ones." House pointed toward a screaming infant. "Colic," he said. He turned to a middle-aged woman wrapped tightly in a coat, coughing into a tissue. "Flu." A brown-haired toddler rubbing his ear. "Ear infection." A teenage girl. "Birth control pills."

"That's half of them. What about the other half?"

"Boring, boring, boring and boring," House said. "There is absolutely nothing interesting in this room."

"Excuse me? Can I get some help?" They both turned toward the main entrance as a man in a tuxedo opened the door. He turned to support a woman wearing a bridal gown, veil pushed back from her face. She was followed by a woman in a frilly mint green dress, holding the train up off from the ground, then another woman in an identical dress and another man in a tuxedo.

"Let me rephrase that," House said. "There is nothing in this room interesting enough to keep me here longer than I have to be."

"Nothing?"

"Chances are, it's one of two things," House said, turning away from the group that continued to straggle in through the doors. One of the nurses was motioning the bride toward an exam room. "Either someone had a panic attack, or there was a massive case of food poisoning at the reception. I'd go with food poisoning."

Wilson saw one of his staff doctors, Brown, follow the bride into the exam room.

"I'm hungry," House said and nudged Wilson again with his cane. "Buy me lunch."

Wilson shook his head, but signed off on the final file and put it into the "out" box. "Fine." he said. He got up and walked around the desk. He was halfway to the double doors leading out of the clinic when he realized that House wasn't with him.

"That's it? No bitching about me sponging off you? No kvetching?"

"I gave up kvetching for lent."

"You're not Catholic."

"It's a metaphor," Wilson said, and walked out of the clinic. He held the door open and waited for House. "Work with it."

---------

House stood on his balcony, watching Wilson through the glass. He'd seen him confer with two doctors, one patient and his admin assistant so far. Every once in a while Wilson stole a look up at House, a confused look on his face, but he hadn't come outside or said anything.

House turned as his door opened. Foreman leaned outside.

"Are you done stalking Wilson, or do you have time for a case?"

"Not stalking," House said. "Thinking."

"It's 42 degrees and you've been out here for more than an hour without a coat. That's stalking."

House hadn't noticed the cold until Foreman mentioned it, but his leg responded with a deep twinge as he turned to step inside. He ignored it. The heat in the office hit him like a wave as he followed Foreman into the conference room.

"Twenty-four year old female, history of asthma," Cameron said. She handed him the file. He opened it and scanned the pages. "Also, her wedding day."

"Ah, Tony and Tina," House said.

"No, her name is Kim," Cameron said.

"Obviously, you haven't had enough exposure to bad dinner theater extravaganzas," House said. He looked up from the file. "Who gets married on a Wednesday?"

"Someone who wants to save money on the reception hall?" Chase guessed.

"Maybe they work weekends," Foreman said. "Does it matter?"

"Probably not." House went back to the reading the patient history. "So ... asthma, wedding, I'm guessing a severe attack?"

"During the vows," Cameron said. "She refused to get help until they finished."

"Oxygen deprivation," House said, placing one hand over his heart. "It's always a romantic gesture." House saw Chase roll his eyes, but he didn't say anything. "So, her regular inhaler didn't help and she finally comes in."

"But she didn't want to stay," Cameron continued. "They gave her Atrovent. She responded to the treatment, and they let her go with advice to check with her regular doctor in the morning."

"And an hour later, she's back, this time in an ambulance," House finished the story for her. "I'm guessing they already checked the normal allergies?"

Cameron nodded. "Nothing."

"All very tragic," House said, "but what makes this interesting to me?"

"Seizures," Foreman said.

House put the file on the table and picked up a marker. "It'll do."

----------------

House sat alone in the conference room, a blank sheet of white paper on the table in front of him, the white board covered with his own handwriting: the patient's latest O2 sats, 95 and dropping on a nasal canula; the timing of her latest seizure, a minor one less than twenty minutes ago, lasting for a little under thirty seconds; and a list of her allergies, ragweed, mold, soy, shellfish and tree nuts.

House had sent Foreman to clear time in the MRI, he'd ordered Chase to switch her over to an oxygen mask and start diazepam for the seizures and had told Cameron to get a sample of the coffee cake the bride had nibbled on that morning, just in case nuts somehow made it into the mix.

"And do a scratch test while you're at it," he'd added on their way out. "Make sure you try dairy."

"You think she wouldn't know she's allergic to dairy products?" Foreman had asked.

Cameron had spoken up before House could respond. "Stress can increase the reaction to a mild allergen," she said, and shrugged. "Weddings are stressful."

"Especially for those who expect to celebrate more than a one-month anniversary," House had said. Cameron had ignored him, and left the room.

With one diagnosis under way, House picked up his pen to start the second.

"Never leaves," he wrote.

"Has stopped complaining."

"Made cookies."

The door swung open and House flipped the paper over. Wilson stood just inside the conference room. He was wearing his coat.

"Leaving so soon?" House looked him over again. "But no briefcase, so you don't want anyone to know you're playing hooky."

"No, I leave the four-hour work days to you," Wilson said. "I'm backlogged on personnel reviews, but I'm falling asleep at my desk."

"I've told you that you should just do what I do."

"Strangely enough, my staff expects annual reviews."

"That's because you stupidly raised their expectations," House said. "I told you that you should give them no expectations. Then they'll always be happy."

"No, then they'll always be miserable."

"But you'll be happy."

Wilson shook his head. "I'm going to clear my head and go out for some real coffee. You want any?"

House didn't say anything for a moment and studied Wilson. Same ugly tie he always wore on Wednesdays. Some nice but modest suit, same white shirt -- probably cleaned at the same cleaners he'd been using for the past six years. He looked a little tired, but nothing worse than any other day. Wilson looked out the window, then at his watch.

"You want something or not? I don't have all day."

House wondered how long Wilson would be willing to wait. "Let me think."

"Think fast," Wilson said. "I don't want to be here all night just because you feel like timing me."

House smiled. "Get me something big, with a lot of sugar and a lot of caffeine."

"I could have figured that out on my own," Wilson said. He opened the door.

"And it better still be hot when you get here," House said, and Wilson nodded as he left the room.

House watched him head down the hall, then flipped his page back over. "Avoids eye contact," he wrote.

He studied the words, then moved onto the other side of the page.

"Spending money cops released before Julie's attorney finds it," he wrote on the right side of the page, the one reserved for "diagnosis."

"Wants to move back in."

His hand hovered over the page as the door opened again. It was Foreman this time. House checked his watch.

"Too early to have the MRI results," he said. "What went wrong this time?"

"The diazepam isn't working, she's still having seizures."

"How often?"

"Often enough to stop us from doing the MRI," he said.

"And you're thinking ..."

"Phenytoin."

House sat back, and looked at the white board again. "How are her O2 sats? They holding?"

"They're at 95 now, with the mask," Foreman said. "Not great, I know."

"And the phenytoin will only screw with her lungs some more."

"I know," Foreman said.

"Cameron do the scratch tests?"

Foreman nodded. "Negative, and she checked the coffee cake. That's clear too."

"So," House said, "we keep her on oxygen and see how long she keeps having seizures and hope that they slow down."

He pushed himself up and crossed the room to pour himself a cup of coffee. He hesitated for a moment when he remembered that Wilson was bringing more, but then shrugged and kept pouring.

"Or we wait to see if the diazepam just needs more time to take effect," he said, and walked back to stand in front of the white board. "Or we keep her on oxygen, give her phenytoin so we can do the MRI to look for what's causing the seizures, and hope we figure it out before we have to intubate because the phenytoin will further depress her respiration."

"Or we could wait," Foreman said.

"I already said that," House said. He sat at the table again -- the white board to his left, Foreman still waiting by the door on his right. "You know what I'm going to say."

"Sure, but it's better for my malpractice premiums if you make the actual call on it, rather than me," Foreman said.

House took a drink , then put his mug down on the table, next to the paper. "Your diagnosis is that you're afraid to take a real chance," he said.

Foreman crossed his arms and leaned back against the glass wall separating the conference room from House's office. "I take chances all the time," he said.

"Sure, chances like whether to sleep with the new pharmaceutical rep or the new nurse, or whether your shoes are too fashion forward, but nothing that really counts. Nothing that will really make a difference."

"By your definition, maybe."

"By the definition of real medicine. You tried once, with John Henry, and it didn't work out as well as you'd expected. You needed me to pull your ass out of the fire."

Foreman straightened his arms and took a step forward. "And look where you ended up. In court, again." He leaned on the table, bringing himself closer to House. "With a subpoena, again."

"And with a cured patient who's recording. Again." House shook his head. "You keep bitching that you're here to learn ..."

"I want to learn about medicine." Foreman shook his head. "It seems like lately all you're interested in teaching us is how to post your bail."

House shrugged. "I thought you already knew all about that."

House saw Foreman's jaw tighten, saw the anger in his eyes. He braced himself. Foreman closed his eyes. When he opened them again the anger was still there, but under control now. He pushed himself back, away from the table. House wondered how far he'd have to push Foreman before he'd actually take a swing at him. He wondered when the last time was that Foreman even allowed himself to be pushed that far.

"You want to play games or make a decision on this case?" Foreman stepped back, arms across his chest, as if the anger had never even been there, had never existed.

"You don't know what you're missing," House said.

"I'd say I'm missing out on lawsuits," Foreman said. "I can live with that."

House shook his head. "You'll see a whole new side of Cuddy," he said. "Anger is like an aphrodisiac for her."

Foreman didn't say anything. He just waited for House to say the words they both knew were coming.

"Fine," House said. "Start the phenytoin."

Foreman didn't even nod. He just turned and walked out. House watched him as he moved down the hallway taking fast, even strides. Foreman had a way of walking that told everyone around him that he was confident, sure of himself. It didn't give away even a glimpse of the uncertainty that House knew hid deep inside.

He picked up his mug as Foreman turned the corner and passed out of sight. He brought it up to his mouth, and caught a whiff of the acrid tang of the cheap coffee that Cameron must have put into the coffee pot after lunch. It was the same crap they served in rehab -- gallons of it. House put the mug back down without taking a drink. He'd had too much of it in the past couple of months.

House took the mug over to the sink, and dumped the coffee down the drain. He'd wait for Wilson's brew.

He turned to the window. The sun was out, its weak late winter rays working at melting the snow that still remained on the ground. Maybe he should have gone with Wilson, House thought. At least it would be someplace different -- a different set of walls, a different set of smells.

But then maybe he should have gone someplace else for rehab, someplace where the air was different, someplace without the same boring parking lot beyond the glass panes, someplace where no one knew him -- where no one knew where to find him.

But PPTH had been easy. Easy to get into, easy to get out of, easy for a guy who knew a guy who needed some extra cash to get something he wanted. House fingered the bottle in his pocket. Something he needed.

House shook his head and turned away from the window. He was tired of thinking about himself, of dragging up all his faults, all his issues -- even the ones he made up. He needed to find something else to think about.

He crossed the room and took the paper off the table, folded it and put it in his pocket, then walked out the door, down the hall and turned left. He'd wait in Wilson's office. It might be the same air and the same building, but at least Wilson's office had a different angle on the same boring view of the parking lot. Maybe he could find something new there, something different. Something distracting.

--------

Wilson kicked him out of his office less than fifteen minutes later.

"Which part of the phrase: 'I've got a lot of paperwork to finish' don't you understand?"

"The part where you actually do the paperwork," House said, but he got up from behind Wilson's desk anyway.

The conference room looked just as boring it had a few minutes earlier, so instead he headed for the elevator. He got on when the doors opened, but didn't push a button. Just stood there with one hand on the cane, the other holding his extra large triple shot mocha and waited to see where it went. Elevator roulette. Let fate decide where he ended up.

Third floor. Maternity. House turned right. There were balloons in the first room, the bassinet to the side of the bed, the baby asleep inside, mother dozing, father standing by the window, looking content.

The next room was filled with family, the flashes from at least three different cameras, someone ordering the tired woman in the bed to smile as her baby wailed.

The next two doors were closed, the fifth a repeat of the first room, but the father was holding the baby this time, whispering something to the creature under the blue cap.

House didn't bother looking into the other rooms. Nothing there of interest. There never was.

NICU was at the far end of the floor, around a corner and out of the way, so most parents never saw what happened in there if they were lucky. He recognized a couple of the nurses as ones who had worked with Chase. Chase had seemed satisfied there. Sometimes House expected he'd ask to be released from his fellowship, go someplace safer, quieter. Someplace like here. It'd be a waste. Chase had good ideas. Unusual ideas. Putting him someplace where all he did was put out fires wasn't right.

House was still surprised Chase hadn't asked to leave after the case with light girl. The case he screwed up on. The one that Chase solved. The one where he'd almost... He stopped, and took a drink of his coffee, tasting dark chocolate and even darker espresso.

It didn't matter. The amputation had never happened. They'd figured it out in time. Chase had figured it out in time, and House was tired of thinking about his mistakes, of being forced to talk about them, of having to drag them out in front of some quack and a half-dozen losers in group therapy.

Damn. House cursed his own brain for returning to familiar patterns, like it was stuck on some kind of a loop. He took another drink, then turned and headed back to the elevator.

ICU. House didn't get out. He didn't feel like seeing desperate patients and more desperate families, all hoping someone would give them the answer they wanted to hear, rather than the truth.

At least Chase hadn't demanded an apology. He'd sat on the floor, one hand holding his jaw, staring up at House. He hadn't even asked why. Good thing, because House didn't know if he could have said why. He could have said something -- something about pain, about frustration. It wouldn't have actually meant anything, though. It wouldn't have explained a thing. All he could think about was how ... how good it felt to actually take out that pain, that anger, that frustration on anything. On anybody. And how frightening that feeling of relief was.

But Chase hadn't asked. He'd focused instead on the case, on the kid, on the diagnosis, and House knew what to do with that information. He'd picked up the phone, called the OR to stop the surgery, told Chase to get the kid moved, and to have Cameron or Foreman tell the parents. Then he'd gone home and finished off nearly half a bottle of Maker's Mark.

Foreman was easy to predict. He'd get angry. He'd yell. He probably would have fought back, House thought. He probably would have quit. Chase hadn't done any of those things, and House still couldn't figure out why. And he still wasn't sure if he was more interested in why Chase had never demanded an apology, or more grateful that he hadn't.

The elevator doors closed and House felt it drop. He took another drink of his coffee. The doors opened on the clinic. Definitely not getting off there. He punched the L1 button before anyone could step in.

Basement. Imaging.

He turned left, past radiology's offices and conference rooms. He peeked through the window at the MRI machine, and saw Cameron settling their patient on the table. He went to the next door and entered the control room.

"We haven't started yet," Foreman said. Chase didn't say anything, just studied the readouts from the woman's lab work.

House leaned against the wall. "I'll wait," he said.

Cameron came through the door and Foreman started the machine. The table slid backwards into the tube.

"She's ready," Cameron said.

No one was ever ready, House thought. You lay there on a cold table in a thin gown and waited for the test to start, just so that it would end.

House knew that you could hear the belt working underneath you as the table slid back into the machine, just a faint sound as the rest of the machine roared to life, then the clatter of the magnet thunking, each "kerchunk" seeming louder than the rest, echoing against the concrete walls and through the plastic tube.

If patients were lucky they'd be unconscious, sleep through the procedure. If they weren't, then ... House took another drink, emptying the cup. He tossed it into the garbage.

He hadn't wanted this. He'd wanted distraction, wanted to think about something other than himself, his problems, his issues.

"Her O2 sats are falling again," Chase said as he read the monitor. "Let's get this done."

"I don't need any back seat drivers," Foreman muttered.

House leaned his head back against the wall. He could feel each thump of the machine through the concrete blocks, through the floor, up and into his leg. Sympathetic vibrations, he thought. Wilson said he'd never felt them. House always did. It's why he usually stayed away from the MRI, from the CAT scan, from the whole damn floor, unless he had a good reason to be there.

He looked down and saw Cameron watching him. He pushed himself away from the wall. "I'll be in my office," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

House turned off the TV when his team came in. He hadn't found anything except Dr. Phil and court shows anyway. Stupid afternoon lineups. "Give me some good news," he said.

"Define good," Chase said. He sat on the footstool while Foreman leaned against the desk.

Cameron put the films up on the light board. "Nothing," she said.

House stood in front of the light board and studied the pictures. "Just because you didn't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there," he said, but then let the sentence drop. Nothing. He scanned each image again, hoping something would show up. Clean. Clean. Clean. "Damn."

"And her O2 sats are still dropping," Cameron said. "We should intubate."

"Or take her off the phenytoin," Foreman said.

"The phenytoin is the only thing that's stopped the seizures," Cameron said. "We're better off putting her on a vent until we can figure this out."

House kept looking at the pictures, willing something to show up he hadn't seen yet.

"What about drugs?"

House looked over at Chase. "You offering that as a diagnosis or a distraction? Either way, I'd like to hear more."

"Last night was her bachelorette party, right?" Chase stood, and walked up to Cameron.

"It was four women at a local bar," she said. "Not a rave."

"How do we know?" Chase asked.

"They told me ..." Cameron said, then held up her hands. "Fine. Maybe they lied."

"Or maybe a little ecstasy and a little something else last night, a little Ambien when she can't sleep, then something to help her pep up in time for the ceremony today," Chase said.

House nodded. It wasn't a perfect diagnosis, but it could fit. "Do a blood test, and while you're at it check the amylase and lipase levels."

"You're thinking pancreatitis?" Foreman asked.

House shrugged. "It could fit."

"She didn't have any abdominal pain," Cameron said.

"But I'm going to take a stab in the dark and guess that she's been nervous about the wedding," House said. "Her stomach's probably been in knots for days."

Cameron shook her head again. "It'd still be a pretty atypical presentation."

"Atypical, not impossible," House pointed out.

Chase's pager went off first, then Foreman's and finally Cameron's. House nodded toward the door. "Go."

-----------

House kept his distance and watched from the nurse's station. He could see the family and friends, still wearing ugly dresses and rented tuxedos, though the ties had been taken off. One of the bridesmaids had taken off her high heels and was pacing in bare feet. An older woman -- House guessed it was the mother of the bride -- was sitting on a bench, a collection of used tissues piled on her lap.

Through the glass, he could see Cameron getting out an ET kit. Chase was at the head of the bed, lowering it down. Foreman was watching the monitors. He went for one of the drawers, then closed the blinds.

House walked around behind the desk and sat. He found the monitors for his patient's room and followed the stats. Her oxygen level was in the 70s, even on the mask. Her heart rate and blood pressure were falling.

After a minute, the O2 rate picked up again, up into the 80s, then the 90s. It wavered slightly. Someone was bagging her, House thought, then the numbers steadied in the upper 90s. On the mechanical vent now.

Her heart rate was still lousy,though. He heard the door slide open. The family stepped toward Cameron, but she saw him and walked over to the desk.

"Heart rate?" House guessed.

She nodded, keeping her voice soft. House wanted to tell her not to bother. The family would hear about it soon enough. "It's been erratic," she said. "Chase wants to do an external pacemaker."

He nodded. "Tell him to hurry, or the family is going to be putting a death notice in alongside the wedding announcement in tomorrow's newspaper," he said. "Think the paper offers a two-for-one discount?"

Cameron ignored him and headed back into the room.

House watched the numbers a little longer and ignored the looks from the family in his direction. When one of the men broke away and took a few steps toward the nurses' station, he left. His team could handle the medical end, and he wasn't in the mood today to deal with anxious relatives.

Or any day, he thought, and stepped into the elevator.

--------

At the conference room, he walked up to the white board. He uncapped the black marker. "Arrhythmia," he wrote on the left side.

On the right he crossed off "allergies," then "brain tumor." He added "drugs," and hesitated just for a moment before writing "pancreatitis." It wasn't a perfect fit, but until they could rule it out, it would stay.

He capped the marker again and stepped back.

He studied the left side of the board, willing the words there to reshape themselves in his brain, to add up to something new.

The door opened and he turned, expecting to see Cameron or Foreman. Someone with more bad news. It was Wilson.

House turned to look at the clock. "It's after 8," he said. "No paperwork lasts that long."

Wilson sat at the table, and stretched his legs out. "As you so delicately put it once, I've got nothing waiting for me but a hotel room. It's not that exciting."

House looked back at the board, then at Wilson. He reached into his pocket, felt the paper where he'd placed it earlier. He left it there. "But why here? You could go see a movie, get a drink, pick up someone expensive at a cheap bar."

"That's more your style."

"You're right," House said. "Your style runs more toward someone cheap at an expensive bar." He sat and tapped the marker on the table top. He looked up at the board. He was missing something. He knew it, but didn't know what.

House turned away. If he stopped thinking about it, maybe it would make sense. Maybe something would make sense.

"Why a hotel?" House asked. "Why not an apartment?"

Wilson shrugged. "My lawyer thinks we can settle this quickly," he said. "At least Julie promised she wouldn't fight anything. I figured I'd wait until everything was settled rather than paying extra for a short-term lease."

"You're pathetic," House said. "You'll believe anything."

"Maybe it's better that way," Wilson said. "I believed you, anyway."

"Like I said, you'll believe anything."

The door opened again. Foreman walked straight to the coffee machine. He poured the last of the cold dregs of the afternoon batch into the sink and started a new pot.

Cameron handed over a sheet with the latest test results and took a seat at the end of the table. Chase stood next to the door, as if he expected he'd have to leave quickly. He probably would, House thought.

"She's stable for now," Chase said.

"And we can rule out both drugs and pancreatitis," House said as he read the paper.

He stood and walked up to the white board, crossing off both possible causes he'd just added. That left them with nothing.

House stared at the symptoms again. "What don't we know about her?" he asked. "What isn't up here that we're not thinking about?"

"She's twenty-four, works in a day care center," Cameron said.

"Something she picked up from one of the kids?" Foreman asked.

"None of them are sick," she said. "I checked."

"Nothing unusual, nothing out of the ordinary," Cameron said. "She hasn't been anyplace, she hasn't done anything new..."

"Except get married," House noted. He stepped up to the board and added "wedding" at the center. "Why get married on a Wednesday?"

"Orthodox Jews get married every day of the week except for Friday and Saturday," Wilson said.

"They're not Jewish," Cameron said.

"Maybe they're saving money?" Wilson offered. "Reception halls are cheaper midweek."

"I suggested that already," Chase said.

House stared at the board again. Respiratory distress, seizures, arrhythmia. Wedding.

"Toxins," he said.

The others just looked at him. "If they're trying to save money on the wedding, they're probably cutting costs somewhere else too. They're saving money, they buy something off the back of someone's truck rather than the store, she's exposed ..."

"She lives with her husband," Cameron said. "They've lived together for more than a year. He's not sick. She had dinner with her bridesmaids last night, she ate with them this morning. None of them are sick."

"It fits," House said. "We're just missing something." He put the marker down. "Cameron, talk to the family again. Find out everything -- everything -- she's done in the past forty-eight hours: what she ate, what she drank, where she slept, where she got her hair done -- everything." He turned to Foreman. "You go to her house, to the church, to the reception hall. Anyplace Cameron says she's been, you go." Then he nodded to Chase. "And you keep her alive."

The room cleared out, except for Wilson, who hadn't moved.

"You're still here," House said.

"I thought I'd keep you company," he said.

House stared at him, trying to study the way he sat, the way he held his arms. Wilson turned away. House pictured the paper in his pocket, remembered what he'd written on it. "Do I have to apologize again?" he asked. "'Cause I did that once, and as I recall, you bought it."

"This isn't about an apology," Wilson said. "Not from you anyway."

"Then who? If you want, I'll get Cameron. I'll bet she gives great apology."

"From ..." Wilson said, then shook his head. "Never mind." He got up, headed out the door. "I've got paperwork to finish," he said.

"From who?" House asked, though there was no one in the room to answer him.

He shook his head, then headed out into the hall. He traced his steps from a few hours earlier out and around the corner, but there was no one in Wilson's office.

Wilson wasn't in the oncology break room either. Or the bathroom.

An apology from who, House thought. Or maybe that should be whom. Who or whom? Did Wilson expect him to apologize again? Or maybe he thought someone else should apologize?

House rounded the corner, ended up back at his own office. Maybe Wilson thought House still owed someone else an apology? He stopped for a minute outside the conference room door. All the lights were still on, the coffee pot filled with a new brew Foreman had started before House sent him out.

He headed over to Wilson's office again. Still empty.

House sat at Wilson's empty desk and pulled out the paper. "Apology," he wrote on the right side of the paper, then added a question mark. He went over the list in his head of who Wilson would expect an apology from.

Or maybe, House thought, Wilson expected an apology for someone else.

----------

Cameron was sitting with the family in front of the patient's room. She excused herself and met him at the door.

"The matron of honor has a small beauty salon at her house. She did the bride's hair this morning," she said. "I sent Foreman over to her place."

House nodded. "Good," he said, then slid open the door .

Cameron stopped him, a hand on his arm. "It still doesn't make sense," she said. "The bridesmaid isn't sick either."

House looked over at the family -- parents, friends, some guy he figured was the groom. One of the women was standing apart from the others, running one hand up and down her other arm. "Something's going to make sense," he said. "Keep looking."

He stepped into the patient's room and slid the door closed behind him.

Chase was at the woman's bedside, making notes in her file.

"How's Kathy?" House asked.

"Kim," Chase corrected. "No change."

"So, no worse then."

"She hasn't died yet, if that's what you mean."

"It'd make it easier to diagnose," House noted. "Just do an autopsy."

"Yeah, and everyone wants to make your life easier," Chase said. He went back to making notes.

House stood there for a moment, watching Chase, then walked up to the bed, keeping the patient between the two of them.

"You never asked for an apology," he said.

Chase looked up at him. "Would it have done any good?"

House shrugged. "Maybe."

Chase put his hands on his hips. "Maybe?"

"Probably not."

Chase went back to his paperwork. He stepped in closer to the table, turning his back more completely to House. House could see his shoulders hunched tighter than they'd been when he walked in.

"So why didn't you ask for one?" House repeated.

Chase's pen stopped moving, but waited a few seconds before turning to House. "Why do you care?"

"I'm curious."

Chase shook his head. "And we're just here to keep you amused, right?" He took a half-step toward House, his hands on his hips, his voice raised slightly. This was the Chase that House didn't see often, the one that only appeared when he was pushed, then pushed again and again and again. It was the one he'd first seen when Rowan Chase came to visit -- the one he'd only seen in glimpses since then.

Maybe this was the Chase that Wilson saw that night.

"If I had asked, what you have done? Lied, maybe," Chase said, answering his own question. "More likely you would have just ignored me. I wasn't in the mood to be ignored."

This was the Chase that would have been ready to go to Tritter, to tell him anything he wanted, House thought. Maybe Wilson had been right.

House stepped closer to the bed. "So why not ask for one since then?"

Chase looked him in the eye. "Same reason."

"So, what, you're just hanging around to see how long it is until I crack?"

"Maybe," Chase said. He stood in the same spot, only the bed separating them. House wondered if he expected an answer now. He wondered if was ready to say it.

They both turned when there was a different noise from the bed, the sound of something rubbing against the cheap cotton sheets, then the sound of the patient's hand hitting the railing, then her body rose, fell and rose again in a grand mal seizure.

House dropped his cane, leaned down over the bed to hold her down. "You take her off the phenytoin?"

Chase held down her legs with one arm and was trying to reach for the crash cart at the same time. "No," he said.

The door slid open and Cameron rushed in. "Versed," Chase and House said at the same time.

The patient bucked forward again and House tried to reach around the railing, finally just dropping down on top of her, using his body weight against hers. He heard Cameron somewhere between him and Chase, felt the woman's body finally ease, the seizure releasing her.

House felt his heart racing and took a deep breath. Then another one. There was something there, something in the air that was wrong. Something that didn't belong with all the other recirculated scents of the hospital. He leaned forward, closer to the woman. Took a sniff.

"Garlic," he said.

"What?" Cameron was tossing the syringe in the sharps bin while Chase double checked the patient's vitals.

House eased himself up, off of the patient. He lifted her long hair up from the pillow, took another sniff. "Wouldn't you say she smells like garlic?"

Chase leaned forward, took a sniff. He nodded. Cameron leaned forward and took a sniff of her own. "Garlic," she said.

"Organophosphates," House said. "Insecticide poisoning would produce a garlic odor."

"But where ... who?" Cameron shook her head.

"That's for you to figure out," House said, then turned to Chase. "And you get her cleaned up. Scrub her hair with the strongest stuff you can find."

"Atropine," Chase said, and House nodded.

"And 2-PAM."

He stepped back and looked for his cane. It had rolled under the bed and Cameron reached beneath and retrieved it for him. "And find Foreman," House told her. "Tell him we're looking for an insecticide."

She nodded and headed out of the room, already dialing her cell phone. Chase was scrambling for the new drugs and calling nurses into the room. House watched for a moment, then walked out.

In the hallway, her family was all standing, trying to see past him and into the room.

One of the men held him back as he tried to pass. "What's happening?" he asked. "What the hell is going on?"

House put his hand on the man's arm and lowered it. "She needs a bath," he said, and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

House headed straight for the reference books in his office. He grabbed the first one that covered poisons and tossed it onto his desk, barely missing the plastic container on the corner. He plucked the sticky note from the top, recognizing Wilson's slanted handwriting before he'd even read it. 

"I grabbed you something before the cafeteria closed, just in case," it read. House stared at it, he turned the note over, but there was no further explanation there either.

House opened the container, finding a cold sandwich and greasy fries. He sat, popped a fry in his mouth and opened the book.

He was halfway through the sandwich and on his third book when Cameron walked in. She took one of the fries before dropping into a chair. "These are disgusting," she said, but reached for another one.

House pulled the container toward him and stuffed the final four fries into his mouth. "Get your own," he said.

She leaned back in the chair. "Foreman's on his way back," she said.

"Find anything yet?"

She shook her head. "No, but Kim's doing better. Her heart rate has stabilized and she's starting to take breaths on her own."

House nodded.

"But it still doesn't make sense," Cameron said. "Trish isn't affected."

"Who's Trish."

Cameron sighed. "The matron of honor," she said, then added, "the hairdresser?"

"The prime suspect," House said. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, then stood. He grabbed the last half of his sandwich. "Time for an interrogation."

House came to a stop in the hallway, before he got to the room. One of the women -- the same one who had been standing apart from the others before, the one who had been doing so much pacing -- was handing out coffee cups. He recognized the logo on the cups as coming from the same place Wilson had been to a few hours earlier.

"Is that her?"

Cameron nodded.

They took a few more steps toward the group, then heard Chase's voice from inside the room calling for the nurse. Cameron ran into the room. House stopped just inside the open door.

"I was taking her off the pacemaker, but her heart rate started bottoming out again," Chase said. House looked up at the monitors, could see her blood pressure falling too as Chase worked to hook her back up to the pacemaker.

House looked down at the woman, her hair still damp. "Shave her head," he said.

"What?" Cameron turned toward him, even as she handed equipment to Chase.

"Whatever it is, it's in her hair," House said. "It's still there. Remove her hair, you remove the toxins."

"No," someone muttered from the hall. House turned to see the bride's mother standing behind him, shaking her head. "You can't shave her head."

"Why not?"

"Because," she said, "because we haven't even taken the pictures yet."

House raised his eyebrows and nodded. "Oh, of course, now I understand," he said. "We'll leave her just as she is. That way she'll look perfect when you take a photo of her in her coffin."

He turned back to Cameron. "Shave her head."

House stepped out into the hallway, then found his way blocked at every turn as the patient's family crowded toward the room. He shuffled one step to the left, then a step to the right. Finally he lifted his cane.

"Cripple coming through," he said, and they finally parted. He broke clear and walked to the elevator, then came to a stop.

The bridesmaid was standing there, alone.

"It was me, wasn't it?" she said.

House studied her: the same crappy green dress as the other women, the same worried expression, the same tired look on her face. "The safe bet is on you," he said. "The question is ..." he paused, watched her as she rubbed her arms. He reached out and took her hand. "You have eczema."

She yanked her hand away. "Yes," she said.

"You wear gloves when you shampoo your clients?"

She nodded. "Yes. I do a lot of shampooing, a lot of dyes. It irritates my skin after a while."

"And in this case, it may have saved your life," he said. "What did you use?"

The bridesmaid looked at the family down the hall, then turned away. "It felt wrong," she said softly. "It didn't lather up right. It didn't smell right. I checked the bottle and it was the same shampoo I always use, but ..." She wiped her eyes. "We were running late, there wasn't time. I thought maybe I was imagining things, but ..."

"Do you know what it was?"

She shook her head. "My husband might," she said. "He's got a lawn care business."

"He always keep his chemicals in your shampoo bottles?"

"Never," she said. "Never. He's very careful."

"Not this time," House said. "Call him. Find out what the hell he put in there."

He hit the button and stepped into the elevator as it opened.

She put her hand out, held the door open. "Do you have to tell them it was my fault?"

House narrowed his eyes, leaned down toward her. "They're going to figure it out, what with the whole hair thing."

"But I didn't mean to hurt her," she said softly. "I wanted to help her." She looked back down the hall toward the family. "I don't want them to hate me."

House shrugged. "I don't care." He pushed her hand away and let the doors slide shut.

His cell phone rang before he'd even pushed the button.

"I'm just walking into the lobby," Foreman said.

House hit the first floor button. "I'll meet you there."

The nurses' station at the clinic was empty and Foreman spread the contents across the surface. House grabbed one of the shampoo bottles. "Start here," he said. Foreman nodded and sprinted toward the elevators.

House turned to follow him, then saw a light on in Cuddy's office. He stood outside the doors for a minute, watching Cuddy sign one piece of paper, put another in a folder, file a third. She jumped when he walked through the doors.

Cuddy put a hand up on the filing cabinet to steady herself. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I work here," House said.

"Not here, the hospital, here, my office." Cuddy walked back to her desk and flipped shut the folder on top of the stack.

"I could ask you the same thing," House said. "It's after 10 on a school night."

"Apparently I work here too." She walked around the desk and sat. House reached for the folder, and she took it out of his hand. "And your patient is upstairs, not in my office." House grabbed the one that was beneath it, but Cuddy slapped her palm down on the pile.

"Budget requests," she said. "Which I still need from you for the next fiscal year."

"Put me down for the same thing you gave me this year -- with a generous bonus, of course."

Cuddy shook her head. "Your staff should get the bonus," she said, "hazard pay for dealing with you."

"And what kind of compensation do I get for two bullet wounds?" He saw Cuddy flinch, just for a moment, then the mask was back in place.

House walked around her desk to stare out her windows, though there wasn't much to see: the blinds, his own reflection and the faint image of Cuddy, turned toward him. "Did you feel guilty?" he asked.

"What?"

"Guilty," he said again. "About the shooting or the hospital's crappy security or about making me keep your secrets about the IVF. Is that why you lied?"

"I didn't shoot you," Cuddy said. "Security can't be everywhere at once, and I never asked you to keep any secrets." She stood and walked toward him, but stopped a few feet away, watching his reflection as he watched hers. "And I told you why I lied, because I thought you were getting clean." She crossed her arms across her chest.

House shook his head. "That's not it," he said, "not all of it anyway." He turned and faced her.

Cuddy looked down for a moment. "It was enough," she said.

House took a step forward, closing the distance between them. "But it wasn't the whole reason."

She looked him in the eye. "No," she said. "It wasn't."

House cocked his head, gestured to her to continue.

Cuddy stepped back and leaned against her desk. "You only stole the oxycodone because I cut off your Vicodin," she said. "If I hadn't done that ... if I hadn't done that, maybe things would have ended differently." She shook her head. "Or maybe they would have ended up the same way. Who knows?"

"So you lied because you felt guilty," House said.

"No," she said. "I lied to fix what I'd screwed up earlier."

House leaned toward her. "You realize you're saying that two wrongs actually do make a right?"

Cuddy sighed and sat in her chair again. "I'm saying I did what I had to to keep your ass out of jail and in the hospital where you manage to actually save lives every once in a while." She took the top folder from the pile and opened it. "And I'm saying that I need your budget by noon tomorrow."

House watched her work for a moment, then walked across the room. "I'll let Cameron know," he said, and closed the door behind him.

He stood outside Cuddy's office and stared at the dark exam rooms for the clinic, the vacant nurse's station, the empty wheelchairs waiting for patients. He looked back in the office, saw Cuddy writing something in the folder.

She was right. Cuddy had never asked him to keep her secret, but he did, and he still wasn't sure why. He had nothing to feel guilty about, nothing to apologize for.

"You made her cry, House." Wilson's voice echoed from his memory, from sometime in the last weeks of rehab, when House had been marking time and going through the motions.

"I did not," House had said, but Wilson told him he was wrong, that he'd seen her, that she'd told him her secret as well.

"Hormones," House had said, but Wilson shook his head and said he wasn't going to talk about it any more.

House turned away from Cuddy's office and walked across the lobby. Maybe, he thought, Wilson thought House owed an apology to Cuddy. Or maybe he thought Cuddy owed him an apology. Hell, maybe Wilson wanted an apology from Cuddy. He shook his head.

He stopped in front of the elevator and hit the call button. Or maybe, he thought as he waited, Wilson didn't want an apology, maybe he wanted to apologize.

House took the paper out of his pocket. He unfolded it, reading over the symptoms one more time, matching them up to his new diagnosis.

It fit. He folded the paper again -- once, twice, three times. It fit, but it still didn't make sense. He put the paper back in his pocket.

The elevator opened and he stepped inside, but his pager buzzed before he hit the button for the fourth floor. He recognized the extension for the lab and moved his finger up one row and tapped the button for the second floor.

House walked in and saw Foreman in front of the HPLC, preparing a sample. Cameron had taken a seat in front of the monitor, waiting to see the familiar spikes of the chemical analysis.

She held out a shampoo bottle that had been placed inside a plastic bag. "It's in here."

"You sure?"

Cameron nodded. She pointed to the test tube Foreman was holding. House stepped closer and saw the thin liquid which appeared to be the watered down remnants of whatever had been in the bottle originally.

"So if it's not shampoo, what is it?"

"I'm not sure yet," Foreman said. "I'm trying to break it down, but so many of those insecticides use the same chemicals, it could take some time."

House took a seat on a stool at the empty table next to them. Cameron looked at him, then at Foreman. "We'll bring it to you at your office," she said.

House shook his head. "I'll wait."

He saw Cameron and Foreman share a quick look, then Foreman went back to his sample.

House bounced the end of his cane on the floor, then raised it up to let it drop onto the black lab bench next to Cameron. He let it drop again. And again. And again.

Cameron held the end of it down against the surface. "What?"

"Isn't Wilson being awfully ... nice lately?" House asked.

Cameron grunted at the question, but didn't say anything. Foreman didn't even look up. "Wilson's always nice," he said, "and this stalking thing of yours is getting a little creepy. Even for you."

"I'm not stalking him," House said. "I'm merely concerned."

He turned toward Cameron. She released his cane, and stared at the new image on the screen, looking for familiar peaks in the readout.

"What's your problem with Wilson?" he asked. "I thought you two were buddies."

Cameron kept kept her eyes focused on the monitor. "It's none of my business, apparently," she said.

"Since when has that stopped you?"

A knock at the door interrupted him and House looked up to see the bridesmaid standing just outside in the hall. A tall man was with her, wearing jeans and an old sweatshirt. House looked at Foreman, then at Cameron.

"I'm busy here," Foreman said. Cameron typed a few commands into the keyboard and studied the monitor.

House sighed and walked to the door.

"Dr. Chase said we could find you here," the bridesmaid said. "This is my husband, Mike."

"It's diazinon," the man said.

"You sure?"

The man nodded. "I was thinking of using it for one of my clients, but I wanted to test it first," he said. "A friend of mine offered me some. I grabbed an empty bottle from the trash..."

"And didn't remember to throw it out afterwards," House said.

"I was going to," the man said. He shook his head. "I couldn't find it. Then I guess I forgot about it." He sighed, shoved his hands down into his pockets. "Stupid," he said quietly. "I was stupid."

The bridesmaid put her hand on his arm. "It was an accident," she said. "You didn't mean to hurt anyone."

"Neither did you," he said.

"Of course not," House said. "Just because you're both morons, that doesn't make you homicidal psychopaths."

He leaned into the lab. "It's diazinon," he said. "Tell Chase."

Cameron picked up her cell phone, and House heard her repeating the information a moment later.

He turned away from the lab and walked past the couple.

"Wait," the woman said. "Is she going to be all right?"

"She should be," House said. He took a few steps down the hall, when the woman called to him again.

"Are you going to tell her it was me?"

"I'm pretty sure she's going to figure it out, what with the shaved head and the toxic shampoo."

"She's going to hate me," the woman said, and wiped tears from her eyes. "She's my best friend, and she'll hate me."

She was still crying when House stepped into the elevator.

---------

He rode the elevator up to the fourth floor. He didn't even slow down outside his office, or the door to the conference room. He turned right and came to a halt outside Wilson's door.

He saw light spilling out from beneath the wooden door and pushed it open. Wilson was sprawled on his couch. He lowered the AMA journal he'd been reading.

"You ever planning to go home?" House asked.

Wilson tossed the journal onto his desk. "I figured I'd wait and see how your case turned out."

"Poison," House said.

Wilson sat up. "Who'd want to poison a bride?"

House sat on the edge of the desk. "A bridesmaid, apparently," he said.

"How did you figure it out?"

"It was easy enough," House said. He looked down at the floor. "She was always keeping herself busy, always bringing them food, coffee, whatever they wanted. She was acting guilty and without the excuse of a B12 deficiency." He looked over at Wilson. "She kept acting like you."

Wilson smiled. He shook his head. "I don't feel ..."

"Yes you do," House said. "Only thing I can't figure out is why."

He stood up and walked across the office. "At first I thought maybe you wanted me to apologize again, but that wasn't it. Then I thought maybe you wanted someone else to apologize, but that wasn't it either." He sat on the other end of the couch. "All the bridesmaid did was nearly kill her friend. What did you do?"

Wilson glanced up at House, then at the journal in his hand. "I cut the deal with Tritter."

"To stop Chase from selling me out."

"I told Cuddy to cut off your Vicodin."

"To try and get me to take a deal that would keep me out of jail."

Wilson glanced over at him. He leaned forward, his arms on his knees. He rolled the journal into a tight spiral, his knuckles white as he gripped it. "I walked out on you, when you took the Oxy," he said. "I took one quick look, saw what you'd did, and just left."

House remembered the hazy images from that morning, of waking up feeling like crap, seeing Wilson there, then hearing him leave.

"You could have died, and I just left," Wilson said again. "I ran out."

"I wasn't going to die," House pointed out.

"I didn't know that," Wilson said. "Not really."

"Yes you did," House said. "Maybe you can't prove it, but you knew it."

Wilson shook his head. "You're wrong," he said. "I screwed up. You know it and I know it."

"It was pretty crappy on the friendship scale, but then I'm a pretty crappy friend most of the time anyway," House said. "You didn't force feed me the pills. That was my own stupid decision, so maybe I deserved whatever happened to me."

"No one deserves that," Wilson said.

House ignored him and stared straight ahead. "But I know you," he said. "And I know you never would have walked out if you thought I was in really trouble." He looked over at Wilson. "You've got nothing to feel guilty about."

Wilson rubbed his hands over his eyes. "I wish I could believe you."

House stood and walked over to the door leading to the balcony. "If it'll make you feel better, you can work off your guilt in pancakes," he said. "Twice a week for the next month -- at least."

Wilson smiled. "Once a week," he said.

"Twice," House said, and pushed open the door. "Or I'll never forgive you."

--------

Nearly an hour later, House pushed aside the bare bones of his budget request to the side of his desk and stood to stretch. He took a few steps over to the balcony door, but didn't go outside. Too cold. He looked over at Wilson's door. His office was dark.

Good, he thought, and smiled.

He heard someone at the other end of his office and turned. Chase was there.

"She stable?"

"She's awake," Chase said. He slouched down in the lounge chair and put his feet up on the footstool. "She began improving once we shaved her hair. The meds handled the rest."

"Good," House said.

Chase rubbed his hands across his eyes, mimicking Wilson's action earlier. House studied him for a moment, then went back to his desk. "I'm sorry," he said softly. He picked up the budget paperwork and pretended he didn't notice Chase sitting up, swinging his feet off the stool and onto the floor.

"What?"

"Didn't you hear me?"

"It sounded like an apology," Chase said. "A small one."

"Don't expect another one," House said. "And for God's sake don't brag about it to everyone else, or they'll expect one too."

"I don't think they'd believe me if I told them."

House nodded and turned back to the numbers on the page in front of him. "You look like crap. You should go home and get some rest."

"Yeah." Chase pushed himself up out of the chair, but paused in the doorway for a moment. "Thanks."

Thirty minutes later, House turned off the lamp and grabbed his coat. He'd have enough to give Cuddy to keep her happy for a few days at least. He stuffed the papers in an envelope, and left the envelope on Cameron's desk.

In the elevator, House paused for just a moment, then hit the button for ICU.

The lights had been turned down in the hallway and the bench in front of the patient's room was empty. House stopped at the nurse's station. One of the nurses glanced up at him, then went back to her own paperwork. The blinds were open and he could see inside the bride's room. She was sitting up in bed, her husband snoozing in one of the chairs.

The bridesmaid sat on the edge of the bed. House could see her wiping away more tears. The bride reached out her hand and put it on the bridesmaid's shoulder, pulled her closer and wrapped her arms around her in a warm embrace.

House watched for a moment, seeing the intertwining of arms, the bridemaid's back, the bride's shaved head with its pale skin resting lightly on her friend's shoulder.

He turned and walked away. It was late, and he was tired. Then House smiled. Tomorrow, he'd have pancakes.


End file.
